


No Smoke Without

by laetificat



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Sex Pollen, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laetificat/pseuds/laetificat
Summary: For the meme prompt of "one-sided sex pollen".Ambrose messes with forces he should know better than to tempt.





	No Smoke Without

Of the many assumptions mortals made about witchcraft, the belief that love spells were simple was one of the silliest. A pinch of sandalwood or sage, a white candle and a red ribbon, something your beloved has touched, blah blah. Ridiculous.

In Ambrose’s long and storied experience, love -- and love spells -- were anything but simple. After all, they dealt with one of humanity’s most base and complex emotions. Messing about with primal urges was no easy feat; if the least thing went wrong, you could cause irreparable damage. Or at least something rather embarrassing. 

Case in point: the fact that Ambrose was currently standing in his underwear in the middle of the mortuary at four in the fucking morning, trembling with what Mills and Boon would describe as “unbridled lust”. 

Ambrose clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing heart. His cock ached, trapped against his belly by his boxers. He’d already gotten himself off three times and the damned thing wasn’t even tired. He shivered. The slightest movement of the air felt like tongues licking deliciously across his skin. He’d had to abandon his beloved silk robe lest he start humping it. Even the cold tile floor and the smell of death, formaldehyde and embalming fluid wasn’t doing anything to cool his ardor. 

“Shit,” he cursed himself, for the tenth time, “shit, shit, shit.” 

Filthy, magic-tinged thoughts raced through his mind, making him feel woozy, begging him to touch himself, to grab the nearest available object and stick it up his ass, find someone to fuck, right now, something, anything --

This was serious. He squinted up in the direction of the rest of the house, licking his lips. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed help.

*

Zelda had always been a light sleeper. It wasn’t a problem -- in fact, in many cases it had saved her life. Satan knew she didn’t need more than a few hours of rest to be functional, and in fact she enjoyed the long quiet hours of the night, the deep witching hours, when there were no demands upon her besides the ones she decided for herself. She often spent those hours in the sitting room with a pot of herbal tea and a book on the occult, or occasionally working on a nice new hex. 

The smell of cinnamon and ginger was warming the air and she had just reached a particularly interesting chapter concerning the use of goat blood in summoning spells when Ambrose opened the door. 

“Auntie,” he greeted her, his voice thick, almost a groan. Zelda closed her book and looked up at him. And looked at him. 

She had seen him in a state of undress before, of course, during rituals where being skyclad was necessary and at the occasional celebratory orgy, though sadly they’d had fewer of those of late. The fact that he was very nearly naked and in a state of apparent arousal -- judging by the bulge in the front of his boxer shorts and the sweat sheening his skin -- didn’t phase her. No, it was the fear in his expression that gave her pause. 

“Ambrose.” She rose from her chair and crossed the room to him as he staggered a few steps towards her. Closer, he smelled like musk and patchouli and blood. He reached out as if to touch her, then visibly restrained himself. His chest heaved like a bellows; his pupils were blown, deep black droplets of ink in the copper bowls of his eyes. 

Zelda frowned. 

“Lust spells, Ambrose? Really?” 

“An anti-lust spell,” Ambrose moaned, crossing the room to stand before the small fire, hugging himself as if he were suddenly cold. “It’s been so long since I left the house, Auntie. I just wanted to stop.. wanting it. For a while.”

Zelda didn’t pity Ambrose, since she knew such emotions wouldn’t help him. But she did feel a moment of sadness on his behalf. Such a creature as he was not supposed to be caged. Loyalty bought at perhaps too high a price.

She walked back to her chair and poured out a cup of tea, holding it out to him. He took it from her, and she didn’t miss the way he sucked in a sharp breath when her fingers brushed his. A small wet spot darkened the grey cotton of his underwear. Sweat beaded his brow, glittering in the dense curls of his hair, running down his chest and over the dark circles of his nipples.

“What went wrong?” She asked, though she was fairly sure she knew. 

“I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t.. want it enough. Visualised the wrong thing. All I know is, this,” he gestured down at himself, “isn’t stopping. In fact it seems to be getting worse.” He took a steadying breath, then chased the words with a sip of tea, curling his shaking hands around the cup.

“Auntie,” he continued after a moment, dropping his gaze to the carpet, the fire, the walls, “I need your help. Please. I need..” 

Zelda considered it for a moment. Both of them knew the best and fastest way to defuse a lust spell was skin-to-skin contact with a willing partner. She couldn’t just leave him to suffer. 

“Very well,” she replied. 

Ambrose bit off a whimper of gratitude, hurriedly setting his cup back down in the saucer, making the china rattle. 

“Auntie -- ” he began, but she cut him off, shrugging out of her robe to reveal her black silk nightdress. His eyes skated over the exposed swell of her breasts. 

“Quiet now, try to concentrate,” she said, stepping in close to him. She reached up to brush her fingers through his hair. He made an involuntary noise, tipping his head back at her touch, his body trembling. “Do you need pain or pleasure?”

Ambrose shivered. 

“Both, please,” he whispered. 

“Very good,” Zelda sighed. 

She let her fingers slide down Ambrose’s throat, down his chest and belly, allowing herself to enjoy the damp heat of his skin. He was right -- it had been a long time. He groaned, hands opening and closing at his sides. Her touch dipped lower, taking hold of him through his underwear, stroking her palm down over the rigid length of his cock. Ambrose shuddered, stepping in closer to her. She didn’t stop him from taking hold of her hips, his fingertips pressing in a little too hard to be comfortable.

Zelda lifted her mouth, kissing the side of his throat. Her hand moved a little and he was undone, having wanted it too long, shaking and moaning and clutching at her, hot wetness flooding against her palm. She let him ride it out, stroking the back of his neck and murmuring soft words. 

“Fuck, Auntie..” he murmured, dropping his head to rest on her shoulder. He remained as hard as before beneath her fingers. His skin felt hot, almost fevered. 

“Good boy, that is well begun,” Zelda soothed him. 

Drawing back, she took his hand, leading him to the low couch. She sat, tugging him down. He obeyed, kneeling and then positioning himself to lie across her lap, guessing her intent. With deft and careful fingers she hooked his underwear down, exposing his naked backside. She pulled up the skirt of her nightdress and parted her thighs a little, letting his cock slip between them. Ambrose groaned, almost a sob, burying his face in his crossed arms as his hips rocked, helpless. 

“Thank you, Auntie,” he whispered into the fabric of the couch. 

“Brace yourself,” Zelda said, and that was all the warning she allowed him. Her palm smacked against his flesh, once, twice, many years of practice making her an excellent judge of where and how to land each blow for the best sensations. Ambrose made a low whining sound, hips rolling with each impact, his cock sliding slick and hot between her legs. The smell of burning patchouli rose from his body, the spell bleeding out of his pores like smoke, shimmering the air above them. The feel of his lust rising again stirred her senses, so she shifted a little, opening her legs so his cock could rub against her in a more satisfying way. 

She began to increase the speed of the impacts, utterly merciless, striking the backs of his thighs as well as his ass, her free hand fisted in his hair. Ambrose cried out, low and hoarse, digging his fingers into the cushions. His hips jerked and shuddered with his mindless thrusting until, finally, his back arched and he yelled out, an entreaty in Latin, and his cock pulsed between her thighs, soaking the crotch of her underwear. The heat-haze rising above them broke with a sound like a miniature thunderclap. 

Zelda stroked her hand fondly over his cooling skin as he subsided, panting, in her lap. After a minute he was able to gather himself up and fall backwards, sitting still partially draped across her legs. He let his head loll back against the couch.

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” he groaned. Zelda reached up to brush the back of her fingers over his cheek. He caught her hand and pressed her fingers to his mouth, meeting her gaze. 

“I owe you, Auntie,” he breathed.

Zelda smiled. “Nonsense”, she replied. “Just promise me that you’ll be more careful in future, Ambrose. And perhaps,” she paused, turning her hand in his grip so she could pass her thumb over his lower lip, making him draw in a slightly shaky breath, “next time you feel.. lonely, you know where to turn, instead of messing about with dangerous magic.”

Ambrose nodded, drowsiness in the wake of the departing spell softening his expression. 

“Come,” Zelda continued, gently tugging her hand out of his and disentangling herself enough to stand. “Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll make us some more tea.” 

Ambrose rubbed his hands over his face. “That,” he sighed, “sounds like a fantastic idea.”


End file.
